The Absolutely True Story of Us

by Melanie Marchande

  "Why would I be kidding? I know it's a bad storm, but there has to be..." I glance at the window, like that's going to tell me anything.

  "It's also Fashion Week," Dean cuts in.

  "Fuck." I stare at him. "Seriously? How do you know this stuff?"

  "Well, I try to make it a habit to have some situational awareness," he deadpans. "Besides, we do some of their marketing at my firm. The dates are permanently burned into my retinas."

  So that's how we end up splitting a bottle of wine on the living room floor, with cheese and crackers and laughing about how insanely overbearing my family has become. I love them, I love them to death, but if I make it to the end of next week without killing anyone, it'll be a miracle.

  Halfway through our second poker game, he nudges his foot against mine. "Why the long face? I can't imagine you've got anything to be worried about."

  "No, my life's going exactly as expected. Are you kidding? I'm sitting on my living room floor, trying to ignore that sound that might be wind whistling through a giant hole in my bedroom ceiling, playing cards with my ex." I smile ruefully. "What else could I possibly want in life?"

  ***

  "Marketing is lying," I insist. "Lying by omission at best, but it's still a lie."

  I have no idea why or how we started arguing, but I'm fully committed to it now. These are, apparently, the kinds of things that happen when you think you just heard the sound of wet drywall falling in your bedroom, and you're afraid to go assess the damage.

  He snorts. "I guess if you think it's 'lying' when you go on a first date and don't tell somebody all the worst things about you immediately. Nobody expects ads to be honest. It's about putting your best foot forward."

  I roll my eyes at him, leaning back and stretching my legs in front of me. "So you don't think it's lying if all the models in shampoo ads are wearing extensions? And the dogs in all those shitty kibble ads are really eating organic raw-food diets prepared by world-class veterinary nutritionists, to make their coats all glossy for TV? I'm not talking about presentation, or putting your best foot forward. They're showing you 'results' that have nothing to do with the products they're pushing, and they're allowed to do it - as long as they put a tiny disclaimer in the corner that nobody reads."

  "Everybody knows that ads aren't real," he insists. "I might as well say that your books are irresponsible, because they give people unrealistic expectations about love."

  "That's not the same thing!" I shake my head at him. "I'm not saying 'buy this book and you'll have this kind of relationship in your real life.' I'm just saying 'buy this book and enjoy the fantasy.' There's nothing deceptive about that."

  "There's nothing deceptive about hair extensions," Dean replies. "No one actually thinks their hair is going to look like that if they buy the shampoo."

  "Of course they do. Maybe not consciously, but..."

  "Please tell me you're not going to get into subliminal advertising." Dean holds up his hand. "Because if you do, this conversation is over."

  "I'm not talking about subliminal, I'm talking about subconscious. It's like what you were saying at lunch the other day. Our brains draw a connection between the model's amazing hair and the shampoo she's talking about, without any conscious thought on our parts. It's just how it works. The whole point of advertising is to hack into that connection and use it to sell stuff. Bottles full of chemicals that are probably actively damaging your hair, but hey, Tina Fey's wig sure looked luxurious on TV!" I let out a sharp sigh, hating the argumentative version of me that always rears its head when Dean is involved.

  "That's just the business." Dean leans back, stretching his legs out in front of him. "If my guys don't hire the production company that provides the stylist that clips in Tina's fake hair, then somebody else is going to."

  "You could use the same logic to just throw all your garbage on the street, because hey, there's going to be litter no matter what you do."

  He shakes his head. "That was always your problem, Lissy. Nobody can live their lives with one hundred percent integrity. It doesn't work that way. It's just not possible. We're all hypocrites, in one way or another. We all lie, we all hide things, we all obscure the truth. If you keep going around expecting people to act like Captain America, you're going to be disappointed for the rest of your life."

  "This isn't about you and me," I mutter, staring at my lap. "But of course you'd think that."

  "I promise you I'm right," he says. "There's no such thing as integrity, only the people who've done a really great job of hiding their lies."

  "Liars always say that." I glare at him. "Did you ever even love me, or was that just business, too?"

  Oh boy. Where did that come from? I stare at the empty wine bottle next to me.

  Damn it, this is your fault.

  "Lissy." He squeezes his eyes shut. "Don't do this."

  It's a valid question, it's just that I sound like a crazy person bringing it up out of the blue in the middle of a fight. And worse than that, I sound like I'm not over him.

  "You seem to think the answer is obvious." I grab another bottle of wine and wrench it open while Dean looks on, wincing slightly at my clumsiness. "It's not. It never was. What happened the other night..." Damn it, now there's a lump in my throat. This isn't how this is supposed to go. "...that was the first time I felt like you really wanted me."

  Then, he says something I don't expect.

  "I know," he says. "It was different." He shakes his head slowly. "Of course it wasn't the first time I wanted you. You were beautiful when I met you."

  He sounds remarkably calm, considering how I just snapped on him like an overstretched rubber band. I don't know what to say, so I just let him keep going.

  "But you're even more beautiful now," he says, his eyes locking with mine. "It's killing me, Lissy."

  We almost knock over the wine bottle when our bodies crash together, sprawling out on the floor. He kisses me like he wants to devour every part of me, his hands roaming across my body, sliding under my camisole until his fingers sink into the soft flesh of my breasts, stiffened nipples rasping against his palms.

  Everything inside me sparks to life. I clutch at his back, feeling the muscles tense and tighten under my fingers. I'm breathless when he finally breaks away.

  "Beg me to taste you," he whispers, eyes burning into mine.

  My nails dig deeper into his back, and he winces.

  I'm calling his bluff.

  "No."

  He snarls. "Goddamn it, Lissy." Rearing up, he grabs my pajama pants and yanks them down. I squirm under his heated gaze, but I can't bring myself to try and stop him when he plants his hands on my thighs and jerks them apart.

  I whine softly as his teeth scrape lightly against sensitive flesh, and I realize he's using them to yank my panties aside, just enough to lick me. And -

  My hips buck helplessly, my back arching as I let out a string of curses that I wasn't even aware I knew.

  Yes, it's safe to say his technique has improved.

  Or maybe it's M's influence that has me wound up into some kind of frenzy. I don't know, and I certainly don't care. My whole body is jerking like a live wire, and somebody is making noises, and I'm pretty sure it's me.

  God. He's perfect.

  The first few ripples of pleasure in my chest aren't a surprise, but then they're building, and, oh -

  He stops.

  Propping himself up on his elbows, he stares at me, while I do the same, a little more shakily, and stare at him.

  "Beg," he growls.

  It takes every ounce of my willpower to shake my head.

  Dean ducks down for another taste.

  "Unnh." My head falls back, chest heaving.

  He's staring at me again. I can tell. With a massive effort, I lift my head.

  He licks his lips.

  "You know what you have to do." His voice is low and rough.

  I'm not going to cave.

  Oh...

  I'm not.
/>
  Ffffuuuuuck.

  I'm...

  Guh.

  ...being strong, damn it...

  Oohh, no. Oh - YES.

  Oh, NO.

  "You can't," I gasp, pushing myself up again as Dean fixes me with an evil grin.

  "I can," he says.

  "I'm..."

  "I know," he says, softly, his eyes drifting down between my legs. "I'll let you finish, all you have to do is ask."

  The absolute bastard. He stopped just as I began to tip over the edge, and I could practically cry from frustration. He knows exactly what he's doing.

  Lowering himself back down, slowly, he presses a kiss on the inside of one thigh. And then the other.

  I groan softly, my body betraying me and tilting towards his mouth.

  He blows a very well-aimed puff of air, and I gasp, then groan his name.

  "Please," I whisper, and he chuckles, low and dark.

  "I can't hear you."

  "PLEASE." I could scream. "Please, Dean, I need..."

  Yes. That.

  Exactly...that.

  It's insanely explosive, it's too much, it's not enough. It's everything. It goes on forever, and then my whole body throbs and aches as I come back to my senses.

  He kisses me softly, and I taste myself on his mouth.

  "Dean..."

  His fingers ghost across my lips, silencing me.

  "Don't." One single word, murmured against my ear, but I get it.

  Don't talk about it. Don't ruin this. For once, let's just be.

  And we are. Here. Together. In spite of everything, a strange sense of calm washes over me, so unlike anything I've felt with him before.

  I'd always had that sense of rightness with him, even when things were less than perfect. And of course, they always were. After he betrayed me, I thought it was all a lie, just my brain and my hormones playing tricks on me, but now I'm starting to wonder.

  Maybe it was all the tension, the drifting apart, the pain and anger and suspicion - maybe that was the lie. Maybe we really were meant to be together.

  Except we fucked it up. He fucked it up. Or maybe it was me. I'm not sure anymore, and it's driving me insane. I don't want to believe that I was wrong about him and Jessica, except I need to. Because there aren't many explanations for his behavior that allow for him to be a decent person.

  If he truly did lie to protect my feelings, if his relationship with her was strictly platonic, then I can forgive him. Hell, I've probably done stupider things in my lifetime. But if he hid her existence for any other reason, I just can't wrap my head around it. If he did it knowing, even just in some small, back corner of his mind, that he had feelings for her - committing to me instead was unforgivable. Maybe not in the grand scheme of things. Maybe it's not the kind of thing that sends you to the deepest circle of hell. But for me, in my life? I can't be somebody's second choice.

  Even if there was some insurmountable reason why he thought they couldn't be together. Even if he never intended to act on it. Even if he chose me because he couldn't choose her.

  After he left, I did a lot of reading up on emotional infidelity. I'd always felt uneasy about the fact that I had no proof of a physical relationship, which put me in some odd outcast category of betrayed spouses. I did try hanging out in a few forums and chatting with some fellow Betrayeds, as they called themselves, but many of them seemed to spend a lot of time warning me that I'd eventually find out that he fucked her. (They used gentler terminology, but the sentiment was there.) It was like they were trying to help me ward off the Demon of Eventual Truth. I explained to them that we weren't really talking anymore, that I had never even met her, that there was no way I'd accidentally stumble across the information - but they warned me all the same. People don't leave for purely emotional affairs, they'd tell me. The fact that he walked away was basically an admission of guilt.

  It's been two years, and still not a shred of evidence. When I called him up to see if he'd help me with my little problem, I half expected him to say he couldn't. I had no particular reason to believe he was single, but he was. No Jessica in sight. Not that infidelity-based relationships tend to last very long, but I would've thought there'd be somebody.

  This is going to drive me insane. I have to know.

  CHAPTER TEN

  What Happened

  Two Years Ago

  Dean and I don't keep any secrets from each other. There's no need to. We're perfectly in sync, and our relationship has become effortless.

  People always talk about relationships being "hard work," but it hasn't been that way for us in a long time. We've grown used to each other's quirks, adjusted to our respective roles in the relationship, and I'm wonderfully content.

  "You know what I've been craving lately?" I ask him as we sit side-by-side on the train.

  He shakes his head.

  "Drunken noodles, from that Thai place. You want to go tonight?"

  He shakes his head regretfully. "I can't, Lissy. Gotta work late."

  "Again? Seriously?" I sigh, leaning back in the seat. These days, it seems like it's always crunch time. I want to ask him why he can't just skip one of his lunchtime runs and get out early instead, but there's no denying he looks damn good these days from all the exercise. So good, in fact, I'm starting to wonder just how much those "quick" runs are starting to encroach on his workday.

  "I'm sorry," he says. "I promise I won't be jealous if you go. Just make sure to bring me some home."

  "Ugh. Eating out alone is the saddest feeling in the world." I lean my head on his shoulder. "Maybe tomorrow night?" I suggest hopefully.

  "Maybe," he says. "I'll have to see how much progress I make."

  I get off a few blocks before he does, and we share quick kiss goodbye. I've got applications to drop off at a few temp agencies, and I need to check my P.O. box to see if any of the magazines I've submitted to have bothered to reject me yet.

  I waste as much time as I can, ingratiating myself to office staff and sorting through my junk mail. After heading back home, I give serious thought to cleaning out the fridge while refreshing my email, waiting to hear back from someone. Anyone. A zine, an anthology, a job offer - anything. We can live pretty comfortably on Dean's salary at the marketing firm, but I hate feeling useless.

  As dinnertime rolls around, I find I can't stop thinking about those drunken noodles. I don't know exactly how they make them, but it's such a delicious, savory-sweet, spicy dish full of fresh veggies and homemade noodles. Completely addictive, and I know I won't stop obsessing until I can get some. The place doesn't normally do takeout, but I have a feeling I'll be able to convince them to make an exception just once.

  Romantic gestures aren't really my thing. Dean and I have never needed that kind of stuff. I don't want expensive jewelry - I'd lose it - or flowers that will just wilt and die. And Dean? Well, if he wants anything more from me, he's certainly never said anything about it. But just this once, I think it'd be nice to surprise him. Even if he can't take much of a break from his work, it'll be fun to have a little dinner in companionable silence. I'm not clingy and needy anymore, I've grown up since the early days of our relationship. But when he's working late all the time, I find I do miss him.

  It takes me a while, and a lot of head-shaking and apologies from the staff, but I finally manage to get the manager's attention and he says he'll do it for a small extra fee. They've already got the containers for dine-in patrons, so it's just a matter of sweet-talking them into it. Half an hour later, I emerge triumphant with two containers full of the most delectable food imaginable.

  My mouth is watering as I sit on the subway, dodging a few jealous looks from hungry commuters. It smells amazing, and it's a good thing they didn't have plastic forks at the restaurant, or I'd be attacking mine now.

  I'm hoping to surprise him, but when I arrive at the agency, it looks dark inside. Tugging on the doors reveals that this clandestine mission is going to be a little more difficult than I thought.
/>
  I could call him, but instead I try the agency's number, hoping that a receptionist or someone else might be staying late. After a lot of rings, someone finally does pick up.

  "Hi, I know you're closed," I tell her, so she doesn't think I'm some nutty client. "This is Felicity Warden, I'm Dean Summer's girlfriend. I know he's working late and I just wanted to stop by with some takeout I picked up. Is there any way you could let me in? I wanted to surprise him."

  There's a moment of silence, during which my primary concern remains whether or not I sound like some kind of crazy stalker trying to break into the building.

  In the next moment, my world ends.

  ***

  He left a few hours ago.

  He left a few hours ago.

  He left a few hours ago.

  The words are still ringing in my ears. There has to be an explanation for this. A romantic surprise! If I lived in a movie, I might believe it. But that's not how Dean and I are. That's not how we've ever been.

  The receptionist tells me, reluctantly, that he's gone running in the park a few blocks down. I can tell from the look on her face that he's not alone, but I wasn't going to make her tell me anything more.

  I just go there myself, prepared to see the worst.

  Maybe he is alone. Maybe I'm paranoid. Maybe he just decided, last minute, to go on a really long run. Maybe work didn't take as long as he thought, and he just needed to blow off some steam.

  I go to the park and I sit on the bench, and I wait.

  Joggers are going by, some solo, some clustered in pairs or trios. They're all single-minded, focused on the simple goal of making one more lap. Just one more.

  And then, I see him.

  Running alongside him, keeping his pace perfectly, is a woman. She's tan and gorgeous and her running clothes look more expensive than my fanciest outfits. I have the sudden urge to run and hide, but I feel rooted to the spot. He gets closer.

  She points to something in the pond, and he slows his pace slightly. Laughs. When he looks at her, he does it with a certain intensity, like he really cares what she has to say. Like he's really listening.